


Somewhere in the Middle

by ineedabetterhaircut



Series: The Innerworkings and Awkwardness of Werewolf Dating [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Dating, FUCKING NERDS, M/M, shameless WoW reference oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 11:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7572064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineedabetterhaircut/pseuds/ineedabetterhaircut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It occurs to Stiles two hours before his date with Derek that he’s never actually been on a date before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere in the Middle

It occurs to Stiles two hours before his date with Derek that he’s never actually been on a date before. He then proceeds to have a mini panic attack, desperate to text Scott because what the fuck is he supposed to do? How does this work? Should he dress up? Would that be too obvious? Definitely. God, this is such a mess. He’s going bowling with Derek, of all people, and he doesn’t know how to feel. Does Derek even bowl? Probably not. Should he cancel? He can’t possibly go on a date like this, skeeved and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because now he’s thinking about all the reasons why Derek would want to go on a date with him, and he can’t come up with anything concrete. So yeah, he’s freaking out just the tiniest bit, and he could really use his best friend right now but he can’t even text him, because said best friend absolutely hates Derek’s guts. In order to quell the wave of nausea that keeps threatening to crest over him in an increasingly unpleasant way, he starts going through his closet to find a shirt that doesn’t have any holes in it or blood on it (the blood thing especially has become a problem since Stiles was introduced to Beacon Hills’ werewolf population). He makes a noise of distress when he realizes that most of his shirts are obnoxious graphic tees or plaid button downs. He roots around, because he’s got to have at least one nice shirt, right? Right? He sighs with relief when he finally finds a dark blue sweater (he thinks that Melissa got it for him, but he’s not sure); it’s a cool October day and Stiles didn’t even know he owned any sweaters, so this is pretty good. He digs some nicer jeans out of his bottom dresser drawer, and he wonders idly if he’ll look too nice. Then freaks himself out again, because Derek will probably just show up in his normal clothes; i.e. mildly bloodstained and probably smelling like he just killed someone and ate them, paired with his normal leather jacket and a terrifying scowl. Just because they’ve kissed twice doesn’t mean that Derek isn’t still scary as shit.

He leaves the clothes on his bed, running down to the kitchen to make himself a microwave burrito. Maybe they’re super gross and unhealthy, but they bring Stiles comfort like nothing else. It’s a beans and cheese one, making Stiles appreciative of artificial flavoring and faux-Mexican cuisine. He darts back upstairs once he’s done inhaling his burrito, staring anxiously at the clothes laid over his bed. Are they too nice? He feels like they’re too nice, and not at all what he’d normally wear. He checks his phone and realizes that he only has forty five minutes to shower and do his hair and basically look decent and holy shit, when did an hour pass so quickly? He fucking sprints to the bathroom to take the fastest shower known to man, emerging with wild hair and pinked up skin and cursing himself for freaking out so much that time seems to have warped inexplicably. He scrubs at his body, wrapping the towel around his waist and sticking his toothbrush in his mouth, staring at himself and wondering when this became his life. If someone had told Stiles even a few months ago that he would be going out on a bowling date with Derek Hale, he would have laughed in their face and called them crazy.

He’s still in disbelief that Derek even said yes. What will they talk about? Stiles suddenly realizes all the many things that he can’t speak of regarding Derek’s dark and convoluted past and that he’s physically incapable of shutting the fuck up and will definitely say something wrong. A lot. He swishes toothpaste around in his mouth for a second before leaning down to spit in the sink, wiping off his mouth as he straightens up. He smiles at the mirror, a crooked thing, and checks for any pieces of burrito or something in his teeth. Satisfied, he turns away from his reflection and heads for his room, figuring he has at least thirty minutes to finish getting ride and then drive to the bowling alley in town. He looks at the clothes on his bed with a sense of trepidation, dropping the towel and slipping the sweater over his head; it feels warm and a little scratchy against his skin, but it’s comfortable and Stiles feels a little more ready to actually go on a date now. He hesitates when he reaches for his good luck batman boxers. Should he wear something… sexier? He cringes at himself because jesus christ, he should not be thinking about putting out on the first date. Even though he would totally climb Derek like a tree given the chance, running his hands over every inch of him and licking- Stiles shakes his head, quietly admonishing his libido for not chilling the fuck out. He runs his hand through his hair, which is longer now than it’s been in a long time; he doesn’t know if he likes it necessarily, but it makes him look a little bit older and he enjoys that; he’s a junior now, and he’s pretty fucking tired of being mistaken as a freshman time after time, teachers stopping to try and give him “helpful” directions to class and having to constantly remind the school nurse that he’s _sixteen_ not _fourteen_ thank you very much. He knows that Derek’s already a little on edge because of the age thing, so no need to add fuel to the fire by shaving his head and accentuating the fact that all the baby fat still hasn’t left his face.

He puts the batman boxers on anyway, even if they’re kind of ratty and a tad bit ill fitting, because he’s an independent young adult who can make his own decisions. And he really doesn’t expect to get to third base anytime soon; in fact, if anything even comes out of this date thing (and that’s assuming that Stiles doesn’t say or do something to scare Derek off), he’d be pleasantly surprised. More than pleasantly surprised, more like fucking enthralled, but he’d never say that out loud because that’s the sort of sappy thing that Erica would never let him live down. He knows, has known for awhile, that he and Derek are caught in the middle; they’re more than friends but besides a couple kisses, Stiles isn’t kidding himself enough to think that they’re much more. They’re both damaged and awkward, and they’ve been in between friendship and relationship for too long for him to be comfortable with. Nothing will ever be simple with Derek, but letting whatever they have between them sit and tangle itself into increasingly complicated knots doesn’t seem like the right course of action. So no matter how scared Stiles is, he can’t wimp out; the fact that Derek even said yes is important, and while the conversation may end up being stilted and the setting horribly cliche, Stiles is determined to see this through. He buttons his jeans, reaching an arm beneath his bed to grope around for his converse and making a victorious noise when he feels the laces, quickly throwing them on. He checks his phone and it’s 5:45; he has to be at the bowling alley by 6. He chances a quick look in the mirror and his hair's a mess; he brushes it out with his fingers, kind of puffing it up into the style he’s been working with for the past few months.

He continues his trek through the house, grabbing his keys off the table in the hall and checking his reflection for what must be the thousandth time; if he’s being honest, he doesn’t know what Derek sees in him. Derek is… well, Derek, and Stiles is sixteen and weedy and pale as all hell. Realistically he knows that besides his humor and (occasional) brains, he doesn’t have much to offer; not that he’s calling himself ugly or anything, but he’s not even close to Derek’s level of hot. He can’t help but feel self conscious, especially because he’s not even sure what Derek wants. He’s not even sure what he wants. He sighs as he opens the front door, checking his back pocket to make sure he remembered his phone before shutting it behind him and jogging to his jeep. He’s nervous when he starts the car and pulls out of the driveway, almost hitting the trash can on his way, and Stiles continues to grow more and more nervous as he finds himself on the main road; he marvels at the fact that he’s even able to drive in this state, with his worry threatening to swallow him whole. He turns on some generic pop shit that’s playing on the radio and lets the lyrics flow over him as he drives, hands that were tightened into a death grip on the steering wheel slowly relaxing. It’s okay, he thinks. He’ll be fine.

***

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he doesn’t know what he was thinking. He can’t do this at all, not with Derek staring him down across a sparsely populated bowling alley while wearing a vest. An honest to god grey vest (a vest!!), over a black shirt that stretches across Derek’s broad chest in a way that makes Stiles’ mouth feel drier than the fucking Sahara. Jesus. He can barely even process the fact that Derek _dressed up for him_ because what even. He hazards a look at the clock on the wall and sees that he’s actually five minutes early, and Derek has bowling shoes on (and seriously, how is this his life??) which means that he was super early and _oh god_ , Stiles might actually die.

“I’m guessing Tall, Dark, and Brooding over there is with you?” A bored voice cuts through his inner monologue of panic, and Stiles’ gaze snaps to the girl in a garish red and white shirt behind the counter. She has dark blue hair, Kohl rimmed eyes, and a multitude of piercings that would be pretty intimidating if Derek hadn’t taken the word and brought it to stunning new levels. He can only manage a weak shrug in response, and she snorts and hands him a pair of very ugly bowling shoes. “Good luck, buddy.” He nods at her, swallowing and forcing his feet to move in Derek’s direction. He’s still staring at him; Stiles feels oddly exposed, even though all he’s done is roll up the sleeves of his sweater. Derek is stiff when he finally reaches him, looking unsure as to what he’s supposed to do. Stiles has a strong urge to reach up and kiss his cheek, but quickly tamps down on that impulse and resorts to an awkward little wave instead. Something in Derek loosens just the slightest bit, but this is still hands down the tensest Stiles has ever seen him. He thinks he knows how he feels. He wipes his palms against his jeans nervously, and both he and Derek clear their throats at the same time. Derek makes a little half-gesture that means that Stiles should go first.

“You, uh, y-you look really um, nice? Sorry, that sounded like a question because I have actually no idea how to compliment someone, but you do look really nice,” he amends awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. Derek’s constipation face is in place, as if he can’t even believe he’s doing this, and Stiles… is completely lost. The other man’s gaze has traveled down his body by this time, dragging up so slowly that Stiles almost fidgets.

“You’re wearing a sweater.” Stiles startles, not expecting him to actually speak. He raises an eyebrow in as best an imitation of Derek as he can manage, though he’s not sure he entirely succeeds.

“... Yes I am. Well observed.” His tone is wry and sarcastic, and Derek rolls his eyes. Stiles feels himself relax a little bit; this is familiar territory, okay, he can work with this.

“I’ve never seen you wear that sweater before. I thought you only owned plaid,” he says just as wryly, and Stiles snort-laughs in a way that’s wholly unattractive.

“Yeah well, I didn’t know I had this either… Besides… pretty sure you’re wearing a vest, dude,” he points out, not that he’s mocking the vest by any means. He actually kind of wants to take it off. With his teeth.

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek responds almost automatically, tugging on his vest. It occurs to Stiles that he might be self conscious, and now he just feels like an asshole. He bravely reaches out to still Derek’s fretting hands with his own fingers, a small smile on his face.

“Hey, hey, did I say I didn’t like it? Because I’ve got to tell you, it’s a really good look on you. And I’m not just saying that because I’m biased and I think everything looks good on you-” he cuts himself off, blushing furiously because he definitely didn’t mean to say any of that out loud (those are private Stiles thoughts). But Derek’s looking at him intensely and his hands are still on Derek’s and _holy shit are they holding hands_ but then he’s pulling away and going over to set up the game and, oh right, they’re on a bowling date right now. Stiles sits and puts his shoes on, his cheeks still bright red and his hands still burning where Derek touched them. When he looks up he’s almost tempted to laugh; Derek is frowning at the machine, pressing buttons and emitting little growls when he can’t succeed in getting their names up on the screen. Stiles walks over, lightly checking him with his hip until he finally sits with a huff, glaring daggers at the panel of buttons. Stiles does laugh then, because it’s ridiculous, and puts in the names Stiles and then Sourwolf (just for giggles). Derek glowers at him, but it lacks any real heat. Stiles pokes his tongue out at him before pressing the start button, the screen above them lighting up.

“Alright buddy boy, let’s see what you’ve got,” Stiles teases (even though he sucks at bowling and is 99% sure that he’ll be demolished horribly), and Derek honest to god smiles before getting up and grabbing a ball. Stiles takes this as a good sign that maybe this date won’t be so spectacularly awkward after all.

***

His prediction turns out to be right; Derek absolutely kicks his ass at bowling, 5-0. But Stiles gets some pretty clever ball-themed innuendos in (making Derek blush, of all the delightful things), so who’s really the winner? Of course, Derek is unbelievably smug at having beaten him five games in a row as they head to the arcade; Stiles pointedly ignores his silent gloating in favor of the beautiful Ms. Pac Man game in the corner, while Derek drifts over to the claw machine. They start up their respective games, and Stiles chuckles.

“Ironic that you chose the claw machine,” he says softly, slipping quarters into the machine. Derek, with his freaky werewolf hearing, whips his head around to scowl at him. Stiles cackles in response, turning back to face his own machine as the theme song starts up. They play in companionable silence for awhile, with the occasional curse from Stiles and various noises of frustration from Derek. Stiles is wondering how any silence with Derek became companionable when he feels a looming presence behind him, looking back to see Derek holding a bright blue teddy bear with the words “I heart you beary much” written across it’s chest. He looks downright stormy, his eyebrows pulled low and face flushed, and Stiles opens his mouth to thank him but laughs. And laughs. He laughs for about two minutes straight, tears leaking from his eyes and his stomach aching in a way that hasn’t happened in awhile (he blames Scott, because Scott is a terrible best friend). Derek rolls his eyes, shoving the bear at Stiles before stalking to the photo booth in the corner and shutting the curtain, ensconcing himself moodily. He’s acting like a broody, pouting six year old, and this is probably the most ridiculous situation Stiles has ever been in. He walks over to the booth, pulling the curtain aside and sitting before putting a placating hand on his arm when he growls at him (and fucking christ, that should not turn Stiles on as much as it does).

“I’m sorry I laughed at your gift. It was very nice and thoughtful of you, and I appreciate it. I’ll cherish it for as long as I live,” he tries to say as sincerely as possible, but he knows he doesn’t succeed in keeping the barely restrained laughter out of his voice when Derek’s scowl deepens. He takes the bear, looking at it’s cute little face and asks, “What made you choose this one, anyway?” Derek gets this pinched look on his face that’s absolutely hilarious.

“It- I know your favorite color is blue and you make terrible puns and it’s face kind of… reminds me of you?” Stiles looks away from Derek’s blushing face (which is incredibly hard to do, by the way) and down at the bear, noticing it’s upturned nose and goofy smile. He grins up at Derek, and he knows he probably looks sappy and ridiculous but Derek won a teddy bear for him and his mind can’t stop replaying this information over and over. He feels like he’s fucking flying. Derek still looks horribly embarrassed and like he wants to jump off a cliff, but he returns Stiles’ smile with a little one of his own, making his insides swoop. Day. Fuckin. Made.

“I love it- no seriously, I do!” he says in response to the disbelieving look on Derek’s face. “I love it so much that I’m gonna give it a name, I’m gonna call it…” he trails off, thinking. An image pops into his head that makes him chuckle, and it’s decided. “Fenris Wolfbrother.” Derek smothers a laugh with his hand (and that may or may not be the sexiest goddamn sound that Stiles has ever heard).

“World of Warcraft, Stiles? Really?” His tone is exasperated, but his eyes are practically shining, and Stiles thinks, _I did that_. He also kind of can’t believe that Derek knows what WoW is, and the knowledge that Derek Hale is a closet nerd makes him even more attractive, which Stiles never thought was possible. He's in awe.

“You’re totally a nerd who plays WoW, aren’t you?” Stiles laughs in delight, and Derek’s red ears explain enough. Stiles is so busy openly staring at him and all his actual flawless gorgeousness that he almost forgets that they’re in a photo booth. He smiles, because there’s no doubt in his mind that he wants to permanently etch this into his mind, and having a few photos as evidence that this actually happened is a really good idea. He digs into his pocket, pulling out a one dollar bill and feeding it to the machine, watching Derek’s eyebrows climb his forehead. “What? We’re in a photo booth. Let’s take some fucking photos.” Derek rolls his eyes, huffing amusedly and turning towards the camera. They get an eight second countdown, Stiles holding up the bear between them and smiling at the flash. He looks over as the next countdown starts, seeing Derek’s unsmiling expression and snorting. He resorts to the only thing he can think of, letting his fingers dig lightly into Derek’s sides and watching him squirm. So he’s ticklish (score!). Stiles can see him trying to keep his face straight and continues to tickle him without mercy, a brief flash signaling the second photo being taken. He gets his fingers under Derek’s (ridiculously sexy) dress shirt and ~~amazing~~ stupid vest, and Derek lets out an involuntary giggle. Stiles’ heart fucking _melts_.

“Stiles, stop it.” The third flash goes off. Derek’s still smiling, and Stiles is unbelievably happy. He leans in close, their noses touching. Derek’s cheeks pink up and his gaze goes cross eyed, and Stiles chuckles breathlessly against his cheek, never wanting to move from this spot, ever. He closes the little bit of distance, sighing into Derek’s mouth. Derek lifts up his hands to cradle Stiles’ face as the final flash of the booth camera goes off. Stiles learns that he really likes being able to kiss Derek for more than five seconds, and that it’s really hard to make out with somebody when you can’t stop smiling. But it’s all worth it for the absolutely priceless look on Derek’s face when the blue haired girl from earlier opens the curtain and tells them to play another game or get out. So, yeah. It’s probably the best day of Stiles’ entire existence.

***

They’re finally kicked out of the bowling alley at around eight (the girl, Maggie, says she was supposed to close up half an hour earlier but they were too sickeningly adorable to disturb); Stiles’ dad is working a later shift tonight, meaning they have until ten to get Stiles home in order to avoid awkward questions and his dad doing whatever it takes to have Derek arrested. They drive around aimlessly for an hour or so, stopping in a secluded area in the woods to make out some more. By the time Stiles actually does get home, his lips are puffy and tingle when he touches them, he’s half-hard in his jeans, and his hair looks like it was dragged through a category three hurricane. He has a huge hickey on his shoulder and a few on his chest and a fuck ton of stubble burn on his face and neck, and oh fuck is he glad that his dad’s working late tonight. He doesn’t know how he would explain any of this, and he would really like to avoid undoing all his hard work of improving his dad’s cardiac health in one fell swoop by surprising him with the knowledge that all those hickies were from _Derek Hale_.

“I’ll just park over here,” Derek says when they’re about five houses away from his. Stiles feels a stab of guilt, because he’s the reason this feels like some sort of illicit affair and oh god, what if it’s a one time thing because of that? Derek must smell something on him, because he looks at Stiles with a focused concern that makes him want to kiss him. Which he does. For several minutes. “Stiles, mmph-” Derek tries to drag his mouth away, but Stiles kisses him with renewed fervor. “Stiles, stop for a second,” he interjects, biting hard on Stiles’ bottom lip. He backs up when Stiles tries to chase him, putting a (really fucking big, holy shit) finger to his lips. “What’s wrong? You smell… anxious and- sad. Did I- did I do something wrong? Is this too much for you? I can-” He starts to move, and no, no this is not what Stiles wants at all. He greatly resists the urge to bang his head against the dashboard because he’s already fucking this up.

“No!” At Derek’s raised eyebrow, he lowers his voice and murmurs, “No, you specifically are not the problem, I promise. I’m just dumb and felt bad that we have to sneak around, it’s all me and I’ve totally ruined this, ugh.” But when Stiles looks up from his deep pit of shame and self loathing, Derek has this soft look in his eyes that makes Stiles’ heart speed up a little bit. He leans in and presses a little kiss to the tip of Stiles’ nose (he dies a little bit because it's all a bit too much for his poor brain), then opens his door and gets out. He goes to the other side and opens the door for him, and Stiles dizzily thinks _Derek is acting like a gentleman_ before Derek loops an arm around his waist and his brain promptly goes off-line. Then he starts babbling. “I really, really want to date you and do everything with you, and I’m sorry that I’m sixteen and awkward. It’s hard, y’know, and I just- I really don’t want this to be a one time thing-”

“Stiles.” Derek’s staring at him with an intensity that makes Stiles’ breath catch in his throat. Derek lifts a finger to trace along his jawline in a soothing motion. “I could-” he stops, looking down for a moment, and Stiles can practically feel Derek struggling to find words. “This could never, ever be a one time thing. You’re- you.” And now he’s frowning like he’s mad that he can’t get this right, but Stiles is so absolutely crazy that he just beams at him and drags him down into a kiss that speaks for itself. He’s not Scott; he doesn’t do sappy or sentimental, is sometimes a little too jarring in the way that he speaks, and he’ll be the first to admit that feelings are definitely not his strong suit. But as Derek walks him to his front porch, arm warm and solid around his waist and giving him a lingering kiss under the porch light, Stiles thinks that it doesn’t matter. He’s happy as Derek finally pulls away, a private but genuine smile on his face that’s just for Stiles, a thought that makes his heart skip a beat. He leans in to peck Derek’s cheek, just because he can, and grins up at him shyly (Stiles is still a good inch or two shorter than him, which he laments every day).

“We should, uh, do this again sometime?” He doesn’t mean to make it sound like a question, but he’s a stupid, insecure teenager and he can’t really help it. Derek’s eyes soften, and he looks so painfully beautiful in the yellowed light bleeding from the porch, hair mussed from Stiles’ fingers and vest long abandoned; Stiles can barely breathe with how much he _wants_.

“Yeah,” Derek says so quietly, it’s like a whisper of the wind; his eyes glow red for a second before he seems to melt into the shadows, leaving Stiles alone and in utter disbelief, the photo strip from the photo booth nestled protectively in his pocket. He just went on a date… with Derek Hale. And survived with all limbs intact (except maybe his dick). All he can think as he fumbles to let himself into his house so he can masturbate for the _rest of his life_ is that this is going to kill Scott when he finds out. Oh well.

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another title taken from a Demi Lovato song, because I have a headcanon that Stiles secretly loves her and listens to her songs to calm himself down when he's anxious or psych him up for a test or when he's having feelings about Derek, etc. Also this grew legs and rAN AWAY FROM ME I'M SORRY!! (unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own!) Ooh, and let me know what you want to see next from this series (if you want to see anything at all lmao)!


End file.
